The Revenant (12 page)

I cleared my throat. “Have a seat, Dr. Stewart. Would you take some cider?”

We sat quietly for a while. I racked my brain for sensible topics of conversation, inwardly cursing Lucy for her dull silence. Finally, after a few false starts in which we both tried to speak over each other, the doctor gestured toward the piles of paper upon which Lucy and I had been copying scripts.

“It looks like the two of you have been hard at work on some new project.”

“We’re copying scripts for
As You Like It
,” said Lucy, suddenly bold.

“Ah, for the spring play!” He glanced again at the papers, his eyebrows raised. “No Oberon and Titania this year, then? It is nice to have something new.”

“Do you enjoy Shakespeare, Doctor?” I asked, a trifle eager.

He nodded. “The histories, particularly. I am quite fond of the Roman plays—
Julius Caesar, Coriolanus
, and the rest.”

“I find those plays in my volume of tragedies.”

“But they are based on history. Shakespeare made great use of my favorite book, Plutarch’s
Lives.
” He smiled. “I’m certain a young lady would prefer the comedies.”

I
did
, but something in the way he spoke made me want to deny it. I’d never minded before when Papa said such things, but the words made me a little prickly after my battles in the classroom. “The sophomores read a portion of
Julius Caesar
earlier this term. It’s a very bloody play, but one can’t help being swept away by Antony’s funeral speech, right along with the crowd.” I paused, hearing the words so clearly in my head. “My father played Mark Antony once, you know.”

His eyes glinted. “Your father was an actor?”

The breath caught in my throat. “Oh, it was only in school,” I said quickly, “but to this day he still trots out the old ‘Friends, Romans, countrymen’ at parties and such. He’s quite the ham.” I looked down and laughed—a high-pitched sound that seemed to echo throughout the room. I expected to find both the doctor and Lucy staring at me in wonder, but when I looked up, they were contentedly sipping cider.

Dr. Stewart swallowed and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “You might share Plutarch’s
Antony
with your students, Miss McClure. I’m sure they’d be interested to learn how closely Shakespeare’s version of the funeral oration follows his narrative.” He paused. “Those were days when men took matters into their own hands rather than talking endlessly and getting nowhere.” He set his plate upon the small table near his chair. “I would be happy to stay longer, for it’s been a pleasure talking with you both, but unfortunately, I have patients at the asylum to attend to.”

I shivered. “That sounds most unpleasant, Dr. Stewart.”

“It’s part of my contract, Miss McClure—I attend to patients at both seminaries, the insane asylum, and the jail.” He smiled thinly. “I would love to be a man of leisure, free to fill the day with reading and sport, but instead, I am forced to work for my living.”

“But your work is important,” said Lucy earnestly.

His mouth softened. “Of course.” He stood. “I do thank you both for your hospitality. You have cheered me on this cold, wet day. But now I must take my leave.”

Perhaps we were fools to be so easily moved to giddiness, but hours after the doctor left, Lucy and I were still smiling at the memory of his visit. If only there’d been someone to whom we could boast of it!

I awoke to darkness and distant screams. The chapel again? I sat up in bed, listening. It seemed to be coming from directly below me.
Lucy
. The ghost had found her.

Heart thudding, I scrambled to light the lamp and then pulled my wrap about my shoulders. By the time I’d reached the stairs, the screams had subsided into sobs. The downstairs corridor was so cold I could see my breath in the lamplight. When I reached Lucy, she was sitting up in bed with the covers clutched to her wet face.

“Lucy?”

“It was the water! I was drowning in it, so heavy I couldn’t swim to the top. Something was holding me down, Miss McClure—pinning me to the riverbed!”

I looked around. There were no overturned tables or chairs. The pictures on the wall still hung where they had earlier that day. The only odd thing was the bitter cold, but that could be blamed on the faulty radiator.

I sat on the edge of the bed. “Lucy, it was only a dream.” An older teacher might have pulled her into an embrace to console her, but it seemed awkward for me. So I smiled and patted her hand. “It was a terrible nightmare, I know, but that’s all.”

She wiped her face and looked at me, her eyes still frightened. “She knows it was my fault.”

“Who?”

“If she knows it was my fault she’s dead, she should know how sorry I am, shouldn’t she, Miss McClure?”

“How was it your fault?”

But she only shook her head and burst into tears once again. I could get no more details from her that night. I did bring an end to her crying, however, by offering to sleep in the parlor. She settled back into bed once she knew I’d only be a few steps away.

I made up a pallet on the settee, shivering at the cold in the room. When I turned down the flame on the lamp, the velvety darkness engulfed me. I crawled under the heavy pile of blankets but could not fall back to sleep.

For some time I lay awake and wondering. Was pain causing Lucy to become unhinged in the mind? Or did she truly believe she had something to do with Ella’s death? What would make a girl my age wish for another girl’s death? I thought daily about flaying Fannie Bell alive, but if she were to drown, I wouldn’t blame it on myself for thinking ill of her.

The room grew warmer, as though the steam radiator had suddenly redoubled its efforts. The panicked tightening of my muscles gradually eased. Perhaps it was because Lucy slept across the hall, but I did not feel alone. Why did the girls find this room so off-putting? It was quite cozy, indeed. I snuggled into my blankets, feeling toasty warm and well protected … almost as though someone watched over me.

Chapter 14

I
WAS WARM AS A KITTEN
curled up against its mama. So warm and safe in the heavy darkness. Eli lay behind me, cradling my body against his chest and stroking my arm. His touch made my flesh tingle. His breath feathered my cheek.

My eyes opened. I blinked at the darkness.

It had been a dream. A beautiful, scandalous dream.

But still I felt the weight of someone—or
something
—next to me. The hand continued to stroke my arm, sliding up to my neck and cheek, nearly covering my mouth before my limbs finally unfroze and I leapt off the settee.

I clutched at the matches near the lamp, knocking several to the floor. Then I held still and listened, but the only sound to break the silence was my heavy breathing. No one was there. I clutched at my blankets, felt them come away from the settee without resistance. The air seemed to grow colder by the second. Pulling the blankets around me, I found a match and with trembling hands lit the lamp.

The settee was empty.

Nearly crying with fear, I dragged my blankets into the library and laid them next to Lucy’s bed. I could not bring myself to extinguish the lamp. A long night of restless tossing on the hard floor followed. I woke first the next morning and quickly folded up my makeshift pallet, spared the trouble of explaining to Lucy.

I returned to my bed after that, and neither of us was troubled again for the remainder of Christmas break. But I could not forget Lucy’s face when she woke from her nightmare, pale as a corpse in the lamplight. Nor would I soon forget the feel of that ghostly hand on my body.

The students returned from their holiday rested and cheered, as though the time away had helped them forget the nighttime terrors at the seminary. I was delighted to see Olivia looking pink-cheeked and plump with Christmas ham. She immediately launched into tales of family arguments, odd cousins, and endless farm chores. When finally spent, she asked about my holiday at the seminary.

“Did you get all your marking done?”

“Almost all of it,” I lied. “But that wasn’t what occupied my mind the entire time.” I told her of Lucy’s dream and my strange haunting in the parlor.

Olivia’s eyebrows rose in alarm when I described the phantom hand that nearly covered my mouth. “What do you think it—she—meant to do?”

“I don’t know. Smother me? But why be so tender at first?”

“It’s very odd. I wonder why such a thing happened in the parlor and never in your room
—her
old room.” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “We must try to make contact again. I brought a little surprise with me that might help us.”

“Shall we meet in my room again?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Considering your recent encounter, I think not.”

“Where, then?”

We stared at each other, and then both spoke at once.

“The
parlor.
”

That night—or perhaps I should say early the next
morning—
Olivia and I crept down the dark staircase and through the chilly corridors to the parlor. As soon as we’d closed the two doors, Olivia pulled a candle and matches out of her carpetbag and struck up a little flame. Taking the utmost care to keep quiet, I drew two chairs around a small table, and Olivia set the newly lit candle upon it. Then she drew something wide and flat from her bag and placed it upon the table next to the candle. It was a wooden board, stained rich brown and lacquered to a gloss. I touched the cool wood, tracing my fingers over the letters and words stenciled upon it.

“This is your surprise?”

“It’s a talking board,” she whispered. “It should be much more efficient.”

Somehow, the words
séance
and
efficient
did not pair well in my mind.

She dug around in her bag and pulled out one last item—a small triangle with stubby little legs at each corner. She set it upon the board and gestured for me to sit.

“You put your fingers lightly on the planchette.” She rested her own fingers upon the triangle. “See how it glides around? When it comes to a stop and seems to be pointing at a letter or word”—she indicated the
yes, no
, and
goodbye
—“we know we’re getting somewhere. But you have to hold your fingers very lightly on the planchette.
You
must not move it—the spirit will do the moving.”

“How do we get it to … talk?”

“We’ll ask it questions, of course. But first let’s say the Lord’s Prayer.”

I’d never understood what God and ghosts had to do with each other, and how being prayerful would help the ghosts reveal themselves, but I dutifully whispered it along with her.

“Now,” she continued, “we must clear our minds. Focus on the candle flame and try to empty all the thoughts from your head. We’ll move the planchette in a figure eight until it wants to move on its own.”

We were quiet for a moment, our eyes following the moving triangle.

“You already thought up some questions?” I whispered.

“Yes. Now concentrate!”

I shifted my gaze to the flickering light of the candle, focusing to keep my fingers and body relaxed. The only sounds were our breathing and the faint sputter of the candle wax melting. The triangle glided silently over the board. After a moment, I felt a tingle spread along my fingers. I looked up and saw Olivia staring back at me, her eyes wide.

“Is there anyone in the room with us now?” she whispered.

The planchette continued to move in its figure eight, but after a moment, I felt a pull, as if another hand was upon the strange little triangle. The tingle climbed up my arms to my scalp as the planchette moved toward the full-moon symbol, pointing to
yes
.

I looked up and met Olivia’s gaze again. Her brow furrowed in concentration.

The planchette returned to its figure-eight pattern. Olivia took a deep breath and asked the board her next question.

“Are you a former student?”

My heart pounded as the planchette continued its leisurely path over the center of the board. Then I felt that pull again as the triangle pointed once more to
yes
.

“Is it you, Ella?” It burst out of me before I could even think the question. I gasped as the planchette jerked downward and came to rest upon
goodbye
. I glanced at Olivia, who frowned at the board. “What does that mean?”

“You upset the spirit. One should never be confrontational with the talking board.”

“But I only asked if it was Ella—how is that confrontational?”

“It was too forceful, Willie. The spirits often balk when you attempt to pin their identity down like that.” She took a breath and smiled. “Let’s start again. Try to be patient.”

Once more we said the Lord’s Prayer and concentrated on clearing our minds as the planchette traced its figure eight back and forth along the middle of the board. I stared at the candlelight and tried so hard to think of nothing that my head began to ache. Finally, the tingling began again. Olivia spoke in grave tones.

“Is there anyone in the room with us now?”

The planchette pulled toward
yes
before returning to its figure-eight pattern.

“Are you the spirit who was with us before?”

Again the planchette pulled toward
yes
. Olivia looked at me and gave a tight smile of triumph. But in her eyes was a warning—
Let me do this
.

“How did you die, spirit?”

The air in the room immediately chilled, and I could feel every hair on my body rise as the flesh prickled with goose pimples. The planchette began to circle more quickly, moving to point at the
r
, followed by
i
, and then
v
. It paused in the middle of the board.

“Did you drown in the river, poor spirit?”

The planchette moved to
yes
and continued circling in its figure eight.

“Spirit, what is it that you want?”

The triangle circled back and forth for a moment. But then I felt the tingle, the wooden piece pulling, and slowly it made its way to the letter
h
. I held my breath as it moved three letters to the left and pointed at
e
. After that it swooped toward the right and landed at
l
. It paused for a moment and I gulped, wondering where it was taking us. Finally, it made a dip back to the left and down to the second level of letters, coming to a stop at the letter
p
.

Olivia nodded. “Do you need our help, spirit?”

The planchette moved slowly to point at
yes
.

“How can we help you?”

The planchette shuddered ever so slightly, then moved slowly upward and to the left, pausing at
d
. Then it slid downward and pointed at
o
. Olivia and I glanced at each other—it was going to tell us what to do!

A creak of the floorboards in the corridor brought the planchette to an eerie halt at the middle of the board.

“Someone’s coming,” I hissed, taking my fingers off the triangle, which felt strangely lifeless now. “Put that back in your bag!”

“I have to say goodbye first,” said Olivia, moving the planchette down to the word spelled out at the bottom of the board. “You shouldn’t have taken your hands off, Willie—we have to do these things properly or there’ll be more trouble.”

“Just put it
away
,” I said.

Olivia shoved the board and planchette into her bag, which she then slid under the settee. As we both stood up, I could see the dim glow of lamplight through the crack under the door.

“How does Miss Crenshaw
always
know when something’s going on?” I hissed.

“We should have planned for this,” whispered Olivia. “Shall I blow out the candle?”

“She knows we’re here.” I picked up the candle. “I’ll do the talking—she already hates me, so I’ll take the blame.”

Olivia opened her mouth to protest but snapped it shut again as the door opened. I braced myself for the sight of Miss Crenshaw, her frowning face eerie in the lamplight. Instead, it was Jimmy. His eyebrows shot up at the sight of us.

“Sweet Jesus!” he cried. “I thought to find a ghost, not you two!” He ran a hand over his sleep-smashed hair. “What you doing here?”

“Keep your voice down, Jimmy,” I said, gasping with relief. When I’d caught my breath, I launched into the lie I’d concocted moments before the door had opened. “I heard a noise in the parlor but was too frightened to check it myself, so I roused Olivia and made her come down here with me.”

Jimmy shivered. “I felt somethin’ strange in the air. Coulda sworn I heard whispers.”

“All the way from the kitchen? That’s impossible,” said Olivia.

“Oh, it happens all the time, miss. I’m always hearing and seeing them ghosts.” At our gasps he nodded knowingly. “Sometimes it’s people from town who had a bad death. Or slaves from the Bell plantation who died before the war. Other times it’s those seminary girls.”

I stared at him. “Seminary girls?”

“More girls than Miss Ella Blackstone have died at the seminary, you know. Sometimes the girls sicken and die, what with the typhoid and all.” He shrugged. “It happens—doc can’t cure everything. But,” he said forcefully, “that Blackstone girl didn’t die natural.”

“You mean because she drowned?” I whispered.

“That weren’t no accident, I tell you. And this place has had a queer feel to it ever since.”

Olivia crossed her arms. “What do you know about Miss Blackstone, Jimmy?”

“Nothing.” He bit his lip and stared at the ceiling. “Except she used to sneak out at night pretty regular.”

“And you didn’t tell Miss Crenshaw?”

He shook his head. “Them girls can be vicious when you cross ’em.”

Olivia looked ready to launch into an inquisition, but I was getting nervous. “We can’t stay here much longer, Olivia, or Crenshaw’s sure to find us.” I turned to Jimmy. “You’d best get back to your room, Jimmy. We’ll talk to you later.”

His expression went blank. “I don’t know anything more, miss. Swear to God.”

“We’ll see about that,” I said, and waved them out of the room.